


you slow it down

by thoughtsickles



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bottom Louis, Canon Compliant, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Size Difference, Some D/s elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 02:39:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10688082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtsickles/pseuds/thoughtsickles
Summary: Harry just wants to be what Louis needs





	you slow it down

**Author's Note:**

> set vaguely in 2012 era. light control play.
> 
> beta'd by trashmonster

When Harry comes into the room Louis is singing, softly, but he stops when he realizes Harry is there. It makes something squeeze tighter inside Harry’s chest. Because Louis is loud, and loud, and always in everyone’s face and messy and never cares about disturbing anyone’s sleep or pinching someone so hard it leaves a bruise. But when he sings to himself it’s quiet, and embarrassed, and seeing Louis that way about something is wrong. 

He never wants to talk about it when Harry brings it up, waves the questions away saying he doesn’t care, that he’s here for the experience, that he likes being part of an ensemble, he isn’t meant to be a soloist. And Harry believed him, at first, during the X Factor days when he was in awe of Louis and would have followed him anywhere, it didn’t even occur to him that Louis could feel the kind of shame Harry felt whenever he missed a note or came in on the wrong beat, like he was letting down not just the band but everyone who’d ever supported him to be here. 

But the tour has started to take its toll on all of them, the excitement of performing and being really in a band fading away to the endless bad hotel beds, the monotony of the tour bus. Louis has taken it upon himself to be even more bouncy and handsy and mischievous than usual, but at the end of a long night even he shows signs of exhaustion. It gets Harry more than anything else, because Louis can’t be tired. Louis is endless energy and boundless enthusiasm, he’s everything Harry always wanted to be, unafraid and adventurous and living life to its fullest. Seeing through the cracks makes Harry realize that some part of that was a facade, and he doesn’t like the feeling. The knowing that maybe Louis’ childishness is trying to cover up how he feels for being older, for getting started later, like he wasted more time than the rest of them. That maybe taking on the role of leader and Very Official Mischief Maker is his way of trying to establish a role for himself, since he sometimes feels useless from a musical standpoint. Even though Harry’s told him, has told the cameras and everyone, that Louis’ voice is integral to One Direction, that without them they sound thin and generic. 

Harry would give Louis solos in every verse, would demand it, but he doesn’t have that power. None of them do, they’re just singing where they’re told and trying to prove themselves, still, because it all feels so fleeting right now. Another X Factor fan favorite group that fades into obscurity within a few months. They’re just riding out the wave of whatever luck this is. 

“You’re still up,” is what Harry says to Louis, though he wishes he’d said something less accusatory. 

Louis shrugs, duvet rising up where he’s huddled under it. “Just texting Mum. The twins are keeping her up, they’ve got the flu.”

Harry wants to crawl under the duvet and make Louis lie down with him, the way they used to do in the rickety bunk beds in the X Factor house, but he doesn’t. Louis feels farther away now. Harry settles for flopping down on the bed behind Louis’ hunched form, letting his legs spread out. 

Louis likes to tease him for being all up and down and chicken legs and having skinny little hips, and Harry just blushes and says ‘heyyy,’ because Louis’ body isn’t like his at all and something about that thought makes Harry feel a hot swoop of something that feels like guilt. He used to press their hands together sometimes, when they were lying side by side at night, and Louis would smile and fold his fingers over Harry’s palm, and Harry would feel a hot flush because he’d been too focused on how much longer his fingers were than Louis’, how much bigger his palm was. Louis knows he has a nice ass, likes to joke about it, but Harry wonders if he’s aware of how nice the rest of him is. Wonders if he can feel Harry’s eyes on him when his shirt is pulled tight and shows the curve of his waist, the narrow spread of his shoulders, if he feels the way Harry’s eyes can’t look away when he’s wearing shorts and the curve of his calves is unavoidable above his small feet. 

Harry’s never known what to make of these thoughts, of this noticing. He knows in what ways you’re meant to find boys hot—being attracted to how strong and broad their chests are, to their hard muscles and ripped abs and stuff. He doesn’t know what to make of his need to feel the softness of Louis’ tummy, or the delicate bones of his wrists, to wrap his body around Louis’ and feel how well he could cover Louis entirely. Maybe that’s why it’d taken Harry so long to admit it for what it was—because what he feels for Louis has never felt as simple as attraction. It’s some part what he wants to be, and some other part a fascination with how different they are, in bodies and in other ways too, and then some part the ways in which they’re fundamentally the same, have the same dreams and sense of humor and brightness. It’s best friendship and want and love songs all at once, and it feels too big for Harry. It feels like it’s going to explode out of him at any given moment, the sheer vastness of his feelings. 

Which is why he knows it’s doomed. Louis can’t feel a fraction of what he does, because Louis is never quiet about anything, Louis would never be insecure and hidden about this the way Harry is, if he felt even one quarter of the wild yearning that threatens to overcome Harry whenever he’s around Louis.

Harry flops down on the bed a respectable distance from Louis, exaggerating a bit with his faceplant to try and get a laugh. He doesn’t. He can feel Louis jiggling his leg. It’s making the whole bed jiggle. It’s annoying. 

“You okay?” Harry asks, picking up his face from the mouthful of duvet. 

“What? Yeah, ‘course.” Louis’ still half buried in the duvet. Harry finds himself staring at the tufts of hair sticking up at the back of Louis’ neck.

Harry likes when Louis is loud but his favorite times are these, when Louis is soft and quiet and Harry feels like they’re in their own little world. When Louis will tell him things he doesn’t share with the other boys. 

Louis huffs a breath and sits up a little, wriggling like he can’t get comfortable. “I’m just… do you ever feel like you’re bouncing out of your skin? Like, not in a good way?” Louis asks.

“I guess,” Harry says, though he doesn’t really. He’s always been good at directing his energy, at going for a run or channeling it into practicing or paying attention to the person he’s talking to. He’s always been good at focus. Maybe Louis just needs to focus. 

“You should go for a run,” Harry says. “That always takes the edge off.”

“I hate running,” Louis says, which is stupid, because Louis plays footie for hours and Harry’s seen him run back and forth after the ball for miles. Louis leans forward to grab his phone, and Harry doesn’t have any explanation for why he reaches over and fits his hand on the back of Louis’ neck.

Louis stills, and there are alarm bells going off in Harry’s head, _you’ve gone too far, he doesn’t want that--_ but then Louis relaxes and leans back into it. Harry lets his hand run down the dip in Louis’ shoulders, rubbing slow circles. Louis closes his eyes.

Maybe this is just something they do, something Louis does with his friends, like how Harry learned upon the formation of One Direction that Louis is a firm believer in friend cuddling, crying on Harry’s shoulder during films, sitting on everyone’s lap and letting Zayn slap his arse occasionally. Maybe this is just another Louis thing, the way Louis folds into Harry, lets Harry rub the tension from him. Louis leans into Harry and Harry hopes Louis can’t feel the traitorous beat of his heart. Harry tries not to think of how the span of his hand nearly covers Louis’ entire back. 

*****

Harry hears Paul’s yells before he even gets out of hair & makeup. He sticks his head out the door just in time for a cackling Louis to run past him, Liam on his tail.

“Grab him, Harry!” Liam yells. Louis is too fast for him and doubles back to dart inside the room with Harry and slam the door.

“What did you do?” Harry asks.

“You just automatically assume it’s my fault,” Louis gasps in mock offense. “Liam’s persecuting me. The poor lad just can’t handle a few nipple pinches.”

Harry has been on the end of Louis’ nipple pinches enough to know that it was more than a few. Louis jiggles the deadbolt, which seems to defeat the purpose of locking himself in. 

“Will you help me?” Louis asks. “I want to steal Paul’s keycard.”

A year ago Harry would be thrilled to be included in any of Louis’ schemes, but he’s wised up now, has learned that taking part inevitably leads to having someone take revenge on him. Harry sighs and Louis must see it on his face. 

“Harold,” he whines. “You’re no fun anymore. I’m going out to replace you on my friend list with Niall.”

Harry tries to act like the thought of that threat doesn’t destroy him, but then Louis’ pulling on his curls and he gets caught up trying to protect his head because he did not just spend an hour getting his curls delicately arranged under a hairspray helmet to go back again. 

“Cut it out,” he says, and he realizes it’s a bit harsh and Louis, amazingly, stops. 

“Sorry,” Louis says, a tinge of bitterness to his voice. “Didn’t realize you had very important things to be doing. Sorry I’m annoying you.”

He makes to leave but Harry grabs him before he gets to the door, fits himself behind Louis to wrap him into a hug.

He just wanted to stop Louis from leaving, from thinking that Harry was being serious. That’s the only reason he wants to press them together. 

“Geroff,” Louis mutters, but without any real venom behind it. He wriggles a little and Harry just squeezes harder, pinning his arms to his sides. 

“You love annoying me,” Harry says. He can say it low and soft, right into Louis’ ear like this. “What’s got you so upset?”

“I just…” Louis bounces up and down on the balls of his feet, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

Harry’s instinct is just to stop Louis bouncing so much. He tightens his hold, catching Louis’ arms against his sides. 

“Liam started it,” Louis says petulantly. He’s still tense, and Harry isn’t sure what he’s doing, only that he wants to draw some of that tension off, take it into himself somehow. 

He lifts Louis just a little, so he’s on his toes. Harry can feel exactly when Louis relaxes, because suddenly he’s holding all of Louis’ weight, who’s slumped back against him. 

It’s like Louis’ energy has been transferred into Harry because Louis is boneless now and Harry feels suddenly a persistent sort of buzzing, the feeling of Louis leaning into him making him want to do something, something daring and crazy, and he realizes that he’s getting hard, just from the feel of Louis all warm and pliant in his arms.

They stay like that for a few minutes, every breath Louis takes feeling like it’s being sucked out of Harry, his mind oddly clear and focused on the details: how soft Louis’ tummy and chest are, how the swell of his ass feels against Harry’s crotch, the silkiness of his unstyled hair brushing against Harry’s chin. 

It’s too much and not enough, and Harry’s just about to do something, anything, to release the tension in his body but Paul’s found the master key and is unlocking the door now, and Harry releases Louis so fast he stumbles a little. 

*****

Louis’ always been the most stressed during sound checks, the most serious, surprisingly, the only time when he isn’t trying to mess everything up. Harry can’t let himself get focused like that, not _before_ the show. Sound check is just for a little goofing about with the mikes, testing a few notes in a joking way, trying not to listen to how fast your heart is beating, trying not to let the sweating start, whooping back and forth with Liam and Niall and trying to get Zayn to laugh at bad puns. 

Not for Louis. He doesn’t join in any of their jokey shouts and lyric changes, he’s just practicing his solo over and over again. He hits is exactly perfect every time, but it never seems to make him feel any better. Harry doesn’t know what to do with him like this, knows how Louis stresses himself out about it, how he’ll kick himself for every little hiccup later, even though he sounds great, transcendent even. 

The show goes off well as they ever do, all of them blurring together after a while, different stages and same band, the crowds blending into one long screaming girl who looks up at them with shining eyes, like them singing and shuffling through some basic choreography is lifechanging. Harry loves it. He loves to perform, he loves the feeling of it all, can never get enough of the attention and atmosphere and how life feels heightened and bright and everything is just ten times more _alive_ like this than anywhere else. It’s a little bit selfish, maybe, but he loves himself most like this--basking in the love of the crowd, needing them, them needing him back, the synergy of it all, flinging himself on the mercy of the moment and the song and the crowd and just trusting that they’ll be good to each other. 

Louis loves it too, but not in the same way. He bounces around and jokes with them all and play fights and scampers--but there’s something a bit aloof about his presence on stage--he holds back, a little. Louis is always so aware of himself, and how he seems to others, and when he’s on stage he’s making sure the boys are alright, that they sound good, that everyone’s having fun. He takes care of everyone, in some way, everyone in the crowd is under his wing and part of his forcefield, his energy. Louis laughed at Harry when he tried explaining it once, but it’s true. Harry loses himself in singing and can’t do anything but hope he’s good, hope other people enjoy it, but Louis makes sure. Louis has the whole place in his thrall, it’s some sort of magic, Harry just loves being under its spell.

Which is why it’s extra heartbreaking when things slip out of his control. Why Harry’s heart falls through the floor when he hears Louis come in a little flat on his solo, even though it isn’t that noticeable, because he knows how Louis will take it. He tries to catch Louis’ eye after, considers breaking their choreography to go and rub his back a little, but then it’s his turn to sing and the rest of the show goes on and he forgets about it. 

Except that the moment they’re off stage Louis twists Harry’s nipples and Liam’s in quick succession, dumps a gatorade over Niall’s head and knocks Zayn over as he runs past him. 

“TOMMO!” Niall yells, and runs after him, and the next half hour is lost to running around, trying to avoid getting caught up in the war. 

Harry feels unsettled, anxiety cutting through what should be his euphoric post-show high, and he tries to tell himself there’s nothing to worry about, that Louis is just burning off steam, but he doesn’t really believe it, isn’t surprised when there’s a knock on his hotel room door later and Louis tumbles in, missing one shoe and breath ragged. 

“Don’t tell him I’m in here,” he commands, before diving into Harry’s bed and kicking the duvet into a mountain.

Harry watches him wriggle around for a minute, pulling all the neatly tucked sheets to hell, and then finds himself taking a flying leap to land smack on top of Louis and the duvet mountain.

Louis shrieks and tries to push him off. “Harry! You’re crushing me!”

“Mmm.” Harry lets his arms and legs flop out, weight unmoving, head pressed somewhere over Louis’ shoulder, their bodies lined up, his broad and lanky, Louis’ small and sturdy. 

Louis groans in a way that’s annoyed but not seriously angry, and they lie there for a moment. Harry’s closing his eyes and relishing his victory when Louis’ breath hitches and he lets out a sob. 

“Lou,” Harry breathes, and then Louis’ curling up beneath him and trying to hide his face. 

Harry rolls over so he can curl into Louis, brushing his sweaty and hairspray-sticky hair out of his face. “It’s okay,” he says, tearing up himself a little, because he hates this, he hates Louis hating himself.

“I knew I was gonna fuck it up,” Louis says, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “Could feel it coming all day.”

“It wasn’t anything,” Harry says. “You still killed it, it was just one off note.”

“I love singing so much.” He huffs a humorless laugh that makes Harry desperately sad. “But it doesn’t love me.”

“Lou, that’s… that’s not true,” Harry says. 

“It’s like sometimes I just can’t get out of my head. I know I need to just let go and sing but I can’t make myself do that. Not like you. I can’t lose myself like you,” he says. “I can’t just… I can’t just be…. open like that.”

“You don’t need to, you shine so bright, you’d blind them,” Harry doesn’t know where to touch, wants to cover Louis with his hands everywhere at once, settles for pulling him closer and rubbing his back. “But you can… you can open up to me. If you wanted. I would be so careful with it, Louis. So careful with you.”

Louis’ quiet for a moment, sniffling a bit. When he finally responds his voice is weak. “You don’t need to do that.”

“I want to. Want to take care of you.” Harry’s mumbling it a little, it feels like he’s revealing something deeply embarrassing, how much he just wants to do things for Louis. “You’re so used to being everything to everyone,” Harry says, because he sees it now, the way Louis has been there for his mum, his sisters, his friends, his boys, always the one to step up and make things better, always the one to make plans and start conversations and make sure everyone’s having a good time. “You’re allowed to need things for yourself.”

Louis’ voice is small. “I already got what I wanted, though. We’re here, aren’t we?”

“You can want more than this,” Harry says, and they’re not just talking about the band anymore.

Louis’ breath catches, and then he’s pressing soft lips into Harry’s. 

Harry deepens the kiss, pushing faster and faster, his heart feels like it’s rocketing out of his chest. He’s never felt it like this, this need, this desire to press into someone and take. 

“Harry. Please.” Louis is trembling. He pulls at Harry’s shoulders and Harry clambers on top of him, so his body is covering Louis’ own. He fits his hands over Louis’ and laces their fingers together above Louis’ head. 

“Like this?” Harry asks, and his voice comes out so low it almost breaks. But Louis’ eyes just get darker and he bucks up into Harry, wriggling his hips like he wants to get out. And Harry would have let him, before tonight. But he locks into Louis’ eyes and waits.

Louis bites his lip and his eyes flutter shut, and Harry’s shaking his head so their noses brush together. “Look at me,” he says.

Louis’ gaze is fixed somewhere on Harry’s forehead. It’s a start. “Could you… could you do that thing you did? Before?” He's very red and Harry hates that he knows exactly what Louis' talking about.

Harry’s breath gets caught in his throat. “You want me to make you stay still?” 

“Yeah.” Louis breathes. “You could… you could hold me down,” Louis says, so fast the words almost trip together. 

Harry rolls his hips down and has to take a moment, because _fuck._ He shifts his legs so he’s got both of Louis’ trapped between his own, straddling him tight. Harry rolls his hips down and feels Louis hard beneath him. 

Louis lets out a groan, and Harry starts rutting against him in earnest, speeding up at Louis’ whines and gasps. He mouths at Louis’ neck, sucks at the skin behind Louis’ ear. 

Louis bucks up frantically, straining against Harry’s hold. Harry loosens his grip for a moment and looks Louis in the eye. “Tell me if you want me to let you go,” he says.

Louis nods and wriggles some more, and Harry presses Louis’ arms back above his head slowly, watching how dark Louis’ eyes go. 

“I wanna suck you,” Harry pants out in a rush. 

“Fuck yeah,” Louis says.

“You going to keep your arms up here for me? You going to stay still?” Harry asks.

“Harry,” Louis groans.

“Will you?”

Louis flushes and bites his lip. “Yes.” 

Harry sits back on his heels and rolls Louis’ shirt up. Louis sits up eagerly and tries to help pull it off. 

“What did I say?” Harry says. 

Louis goes red again and lifts his arms back above his head. There’s a buzzing under Harry’s skin, a crazy pent-up energy that has him almost trembling. “Good,” Harry says faintly, almost embarrassed about it, by the way Louis’ eyelids flutter closed. “Be good for me,” and the pink flush that steals over Louis’ chest is making something in Harry’s insides bloom.

He tugs down Louis’ trousers and pants with less resistance, Louis gone boneless now. Harry stands up to shuck off his own clothes and the sight of Louis laid out before him, hands linked above his head, just looking up at Harry standing over him— he might combust from this.

Harry crawls over Louis and presses Louis’ hips down with his thumbs. “Still,” he says, and Louis makes a noise of assent. 

He sucks Louis down and releases his hips so he can fit his hand around the base. It’s salty and sour and Harry breathes in through his nose, reveling in it. He’s always wanted this, to taste cock, to see how it would fit in his mouth, how it would feel against his tongue. He hollows his cheeks and Louis groans, thrusting a little into Harry’s mouth so hips rise off the couch.

Harry pulls off, a string of spit connecting his lips to Louis’ head. “What did I say?”

Louis bites his lip. “Still,” he repeats.

“Be good for me,” Harry repeats.

Louis nods. Harry sucks him in again and starts bobbing up and down. Louis’ hips are trembling beneath him with the effort of not thrusting, Louis is groaning and whining and keening, but not saying anything. No words, not even a fuck or god. Normally Louis is impossible to shut up. 

Harry feels Louis’ hips start to thrust up and scrapes his teeth against Louis’ dick in warning. The shocked whine has him rutting his own dick into the couch, looking for friction. He gets sloppier, twisting his wrist around the base and letting spit drip down his chin. He tongues into the slit and Louis’s coming, something between a whine and a groan falling from his lips. 

Harry pulls off and wipes the string of come from his chin, eyes never leaving Louis’. 

Louis looks wrecked, his eyes pleading. Harry surges up to kiss him, pressing his erection down into Louis’ stomach, curling his hands into Louis’ hair. “So good for me,” he mutters between kisses, “so good, baby,” just snatches of praise, but Louis is desperate for it, bucking up into Harry with each word.

“Wanna come on you,” Harry says, before his brain catches up to what he’s saying. Louis just flushes again, says “yeah,” and Harry slides down before he can talk himself out of it and flips Louis over. 

Louis doesn’t have time to catch himself, landing with an oompf face first on the pillow. He props himself up on his elbows and cranes his neck around to look at Harry.

Harry lifts Louis’ hips so he’s on his knees. He lets his hand linger over the curve of Louis’ arse—fuck, he knows everyone’s obsessed with it but it’s an arse worth being obsessed over. He wonders how it would jiggle if he slapped it, if Louis would like that—his brain fuzzes up again at the thought. Better to keep to the matter at hand—he wants to get off. On Louis’ back, maybe, but now that the opportunity presents itself—

“Can I fuck your thighs?” it’s a bit too hesitant for the way they’ve been going, but Louis nods and Harry bends over to find the packet of lube he knows he’s got in his suitcase. 

He slicks himself up and arranges Louis’ legs so they’re tight together and slides in. Fuck, it’s good, Louis all smooth and hot, the muscles of his thighs—fucking fantastic thighs, curvy and thick—Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ chest so he can press them tight together, lace their fingers as he thrusts. 

Louis makes a soft unnh as Harry starts thrusting, and as Harry’s thrusts get harder he starts a staccato litany of moans and whines, like something’s being fucked out of him. Harry bites into his shoulder, telling him how good he feels, how tight—“gonna fuck you for real next time, yeah? Get in you all deep like you need,” and Louis gets one of his hands free from Harry’s and reaches down between his legs to thumb at the head of Harry’s cock as he slides in and out and Harry’s coming, pressing Louis down as he collapses on top of him.

Harry rolls them around so he can spoon Louis against the back of the couch. Louis’ boneless and warm, eyelids heavy, and there’s barely enough room for both of them sideways on the couch but Louis seems happy to be pressed tight between Harry and the cushions. 

"We should shower," Harry says. Louis hasn't even washed off his sweat and makeup from the show and it's going to get all over Harry's pillow. 

“Just wanna sleep,” Louis says, in the kind of soft voice Harry’s only heard out of him once or twice in the mornings, and Harry pets his hand lightly through Louis’ hair and watches him drift off.


End file.
